Drinks at a bar in downtown Chicago. This is a woman I’ve talked with once over the phone. We met on an online dating website. I have absolutely no idea how it’s going to pan out. She may be the woman of my dreams – or a dud. Or I may be a dud in her mind while I fall madly in love.
Either way, you won’t see an update where I relay what happened.
On virtually every first date my blog comes up in conversation. There are times where I brag about it because I want to seem like a big shot. Other times they Google’d me and found it on their own. In a phone call prior to the first date it may have been discussed when asked what I do in my spare time. And in other instances it’s not broached at all.
Once I had a woman tell me, “I’m going to go home and read your blog and if I don’t like it I’ll tell you.” I found that repellent – not that she might not like it, but that she would mention that she didn’t like it. Could you imagine, “Hey Picasso – can’t wait to see your new cubist stuff. I’ll let you know if it’s a pile of shit. Oh, by the way, thanks for picking up dinner.”
I always promise never to write about the dates and that I respect the privacy of the dating experience. Good or bad, it’s just something that most people don’t want out there. I can dig it.
I’ve had enough dates to know that, for many women, the idea of dating a guy with a blog freaks them out. Some people are very private and have strict boundaries around their personal activities. Most don’t realize I have enough fodder with my own thoughts and behaviors to even think of writing about them. I’m pretty sure, however, it’s been the cause of a few canceled dates.
Many women respond positively, however, and I do get a lot of excitement surrounding my writing. And, quite frankly, I need someone who thinks keeping an online journal is a cool idea. The blog is how I express myself creatively (my art, so to speak). I’m probably not going to stop regardless of my partner’s objections.
I will, however, continue to focus on me and not other people.
It’s weird when someone reviews my blog prior to going out because they come in with preconceived notions of my life. They already know part of me – whatever they read. The challenge is that I talk about what I’m experiencing that day. If I’m having a sad night and I write about fear and loneliness, they might think I’m a depressive. Or if I’m self-congratulatory I could be viewed as a narcissist.
Some people find out about the blog and refuse to read it because they want to get to know me through our personal interactions.
It’s not that I want to write about my dating. Even though there are a few funny stories, most are just nice drinks/dinners with nice people. Not much to reveal.
I’ve been dating for about eight months and I never thought it would take this long to find someone that I connected to long-term. Many have dumped me – I’ve even dumped a few. I don’t want to go another eight months without a relationship, but I’ve learned I have very little control. It’s caused me to examine what I may be doing to choose the wrong people, or what I might do to drive them away. Or, maybe it isn’t me at all but just the natural process of dating.
Either way it’s both exciting and disappointing. That’s a sad way to end this post, and I’m not sad about it at all most of the time. It’s fun to meet new people, and I’ve created three wonderful and long-lasting friendships. I’m grateful to these women and glad to be a part of their lives.
Once I get a girlfriend I’ll probably be writing about us and attempt to find the balance between talking of my life and respecting personal boundaries. Until then I am tight-lipped about the early courtships.
Oh, and if you have any hot friends in Chicago, send ’em my way. No nutsos, please.
I was lucky this year. BlogHer, the largest blogging conference in the country, was hosted in my hometown of Chicago. This meant easy travel from my condo to the conference. Actually, it was kind of a hassle. Sure I saved some dough by not having to spring for a hotel, but I was traveling back and forth at least once a day. Each time I parked it was $36. I had to go home to let the dog out.
On the first night I was invited to a wonderful dinner by my friend Tracy Beckerman of LostInSuburbia. At the meal were twenty of my favorite bloggers. Some funny, some serious. All awesome. This is my fourth blog conference and over the course of these events I’ve developed relationships that evolve each time we meet.
After dinner my new friend Julie DeNeen took me out for dessert. She gets a mention because she spent $8 on my chocolate molten lava cake.
As a humor blogger I tend to seek out other humor writers. And this conference has a lot. To have the funniest of the funny in one location for three days is damned exciting. Pretty much everyone who’s fun comes to BlogHer.
Last year I only knew three people going to the conference. This year I knew over a hundred. I would say thirty or so are actual friendships. People I actually long to see.
When I first arrived at the hotel I scanned the lobby for familiar faces. I found several. Over the course of the weekend the others emerged. You find that even though there’s six thousand people there, you find your tribe. And it’s a really fulfilling experience for me.
We’re writers. We need to be around other writers. We get each other’s head space. Also, we’re sort of nutso and have boundary issues. It’s okay, though, as we have each other.
The weekend blurred with lots of notetaking during sessions devoted to better writing. You also watch a lot of keynote speeches by famous people. Lastly, you dance. Lots of dancing.
I don’t know how many parties go on at BlogHer, but I bet it’s over thirty. I personally went to six. Most of the private events are invite only and sponsored by brands who want the bloggers to write about their products. I don’t usually get invited to these for obvious reasons.
Oh, while we’re on the subject let’s talk about the guy thing.
I estimate around a hundred guys attend BlogHer. After two years I don’t understand why more don’t. It’s just a shitload of fun. Most of my readers (I believe) are women. Most of my blogger friends are women. And hey, I like women. Makes all the sense in the world for me to attend.
Plus, the ladies have sort of adopted me into the tribe. As a man I get probably more attention than just being one of the thousands of women there. And, for me – the attention tramp I am – it’s a fun thing. Dancing at an all-women’s party is really an experience. You have to realize 90% of these women are married, so it’s a totally non-sexual event. A safe place. Somehow they don’t see me as a threat. I don’t know if that speaks to my masculinity. It probably does.
I got a little weepy (which almost never happens) on the drive home because I realized I have love for many of these attendees. We spend the year chatting online, reading and commenting on each other’s blogs, which are really extensions of our lives. Then, in person, you already know much of what is happening to them. “Sorry you got laid off,” or “Congrats to your kid for hitting the winning home run!” or “Did that bitch Betty ever get fired?”
We all desire connection and love. And two years ago I didn’t have a blog and I certainly didn’t read any. I now have a network of people who stay in touch and reach out. They love me – or at least as much as they can electronically. I love them. And once a year we get to be together to share this love. It’s often unsaid, but I can feel it. To think that this didn’t exist for me up until recently creates feelings of extreme gratitude.
And on the way home it sort of hit me all at once. I had just hung out with people from all over the country that like spending time with me. I consider myself to be very lucky.
Flying over a city is such a different perspective than what we see from the street. From a few thousand feet, it’s difficult to distinguish between types of buildings, with homes and offices looking the same. Vehicles look the same, with no recognizable difference between passenger cars and semi trucks.
Then as you descend, things start to come into focus, and you begin to realize that there are neighborhoods and parks, shops and offices, looking much like in any other place you might land. And for a while the cars look like ants and no more movement can be seen.
Then it finally comes into focus, now seeing life buzzing all around, with people coming and going in their lives all around you. The homes no longer look all the same, and the personality of the area is perceived.
But you still don’t see, even when on the ground, what is happening behind the doors. A drive through the neighborhood gives you some clues, but until you spend time in the home or in the business you still don’t know the intricacies of the lives lived there. Even then, what we know is often what people want us to.
I wrote the first portion of this blog post while high above, when my access to the outside world was cut off and I only had my thoughts for company. I had no idea that when I landed, I’d learn that a friend was gone. I had been thinking just minutes before that I’m thankful we don’t know what’s around the corner, because we might not be able to face it. My timing was ironic.
Diane was a friend who came into my life when I truly needed a friend. We’d just moved home to Jacksonville, had a newborn and a lot of uncertainty. Though it was home, we didn’t have an abundance of friends and little to connect us. We visited a church, felt welcomed and comfortable and after a few visits learned of a new moms group. It was just what I needed, and though I was nervous about going, went and found a small group of women who I would form lasting friendships with. Diane was the reason for the group, with her passion for connecting people.
As I got to know her, and then eventually her family, it was like flying in lower, starting to see more details and until we really saw behind the doors of each others homes and lives. When you get close to the ground, and close to people, you see that it’s not as perfect and shiny as is looked from farther away. But you also see character and interest and details that make you love it or them more than you could have from above.
Diane had a sweet spirit and loving heart that was evident from far away. The closer you got, the more you could see it. She also had pain and torment from an illness that you didn’t see from above at first, but over time her friends saw more clearly. She closed the doors, kept the windows drawn and mostly kept us out, as much as we tried to get in. And we tried. I’ve missed her for years, but prayed that one day she would throw the doors open and let people help.
In the end, her illness was too strong for her to see the promise of tomorrow. She loved her son more than life itself. She loved her husband through it all. But the pain was too much and she chose to end the pain.
I will always remember my friend for her sweet spirit, her smile and laugh, her love of people, and for bringing me together with people that are now true family.
But I will also remember that we never know what the next moments hold and we never know what we’ll find as we get lower and closer to people. If we’re blessed, we find people like Diane who only prove even truer when we get close.
I love you and miss you my friend.
There’s no way that last sentence was grammatically or syntactically accurate. I wish I knew stuff!
Well, I have an opportunity to redeem myself this weekend.
This Saturday I will be flying out to chilly Las Vegas for Blog World (now called New Media Expo). There will be around four thousand bloggers in attendance all there to hang out, learn junk, and network. And I won’t know even one person there.
Last year I wrote about the most fun and the most boring persons I met at BlogWorld. Since then we have stayed in touch and I would say that there has been solid, developed friendships. Sadly both of these bozos can’t make it this year. One is pregnant and the other one’s company won’t spring for the ticket. I offered to let her crash in my room, but her husband was unhappy with this arrangement. Lame.
Now, I’m not a famous blogger by any means, but I do a respectable amount of web traffic. I’m number one on Google for “dick stories” for chrissakes. That is something, people. It’s not hyperbolic or an ego stroke to think a few of the people in attendance might be readers of this blog. But I don’t know one of them who are coming to this event.
Now, in the last post I talked about how I’m perfectly comfortable going to parties where I don’t know anyone and making friends. No big whoop. During the weekend I’ll do just fine going up and meeting people. I did this with five thousand women at BlogHer and never felt even the least bit awkward. Of course the idea of being in a group of five thousand women is exciting, in and of itself.
But two things do scare me. First are meals. I will have nobody to with whom to eat. There are but a few options. One is to find someone in a session and offer to take them to lunch. This takes balls. The next option is to approach a group of people already eating and ask to join their table of friends. This takes even more balls. Last is to just being my laptop, jump online, and eat by myself. This takes no balls.
I suspect I will do all three.
As long as I push through the initial fear of approaching strangers and adding them to dinner, then I’ll be proud of myself.
But to be clear, eating is not the scariest part of going to a conference alone.
The nighttime parties are.
Each night there are really fun and crazy parties put on by the sponsors. Now, you might think it’s easier to make friends at a bar than just walking around a convention center, but for me it’s not. I’m not exactly cutting rugs, dancing jigs, or poppin’ and lockin’ my way to the dance floor’s heartbeat. Also, I don’t drink. I can’ even order up four Harvey Wallbangers and send ’em down to the skanky chicks in the micro-minis. Also, the music is always way too loud at these things, so it’s hard to talk.
The good news is that everyone else is there pretty much by themselves. You’d think it’s all computer nerds but there hardly any nerds in attendance. It’s all passionate people who blog about food, travel, fashion, being a mom, or themselves. So, in a sense, this is another example of going to a bar all alone. The difference is that many of these people will be by themselves or with their one buddy.
You know, I just wrote myself out of the fear. I’m totally good now.
Okay, now that everything is fixed, why don’t I leave on a weird note. On 12/31/12 my traffic doubled. Why? I went to trust Google Analytics to find out. Turn up that I was #1 on Google that day for the lovely key phrase “New Year P**n.” I don’t think I’ve even written the p word ever on this blog. No idea. But, I am glad to get some of those perverts over here. They need to laugh, to.
Notice how I made the assumption that whoever comes over here is guaranteed to laugh? Oh yeah! I said it!
It’s being hosted by one of my favorite people, the lead singer of our band. There’s a few issues, however. One, he lives about sixty minutes away from where my place. Next, I don’t have a good costume. Third, I’m exhausted.
I feel like a dick for bailing on the party. My calendar isn’t hardly everfilled up with weekend blowouts. I probably get invited to four parties a year. So instead of helping young lovelies do keg stands, I’m here in the condo with the cat and dog tonight eating too many Wint O Green LifeSavers.
I’d like to talk for a minute about social interaction. Over many years of therapy I have come to learn that, for me, nothing is more important for my well-being than being in direct, intimate communication with people I love. My inclination, however, is to stay isolated and alone during my free time. This is strange because I’m one of the most outgoing people you’re likely to meet. I love to introduce myself to others and have conversation. It’s basically what I do for a living, too.
Today, for example, I did a short presentation in front of sixty people. It’s easy and I like that stuff.
But when I get home from work or on the weekends, the last thing that would naturally occur to me is to go hang out with someone. This is not healthy. I have spent entire Saturdays and Sundays without leaving the condo. Now, with a blog and a lot of Twitter followers it’s easy to stay entertained. I lie to myself and say that replying to Facebook fan page comments or tweets is like being around people. And while I do love communicating with you guys, I need some face time.
Last year when I went to BlogWorld in LA I made three really good friends. Megan came in a few months back sightseeing with her family, and this weekend Vanessa was in for a conference with her parents.
Vanessa reached out to me and we went to breakfast this morning. Over the past year we’ve become good pals. She runs the marketing for SekiEdge and is also an amazing dancer. If I can ever get out to LA we’re going to film a video where she teaches me how to properly dance at a wedding. It will be hilarious.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to have lunch with an acquaintance, but that’s probably going to be canceled by her. What I know is that if I end Sunday without leaving the condo I will be depressed. I’m going to get up and go visit somebody even if they don’t want to see me.
If I end up choosing you, just be cool and don’t call the cops.
It doesn’t matter if I’m about to fall asleep, riding my bike to work, or having lunch with my favorite nun: Jokes come in whether I want them or not. This is not a “I just can’t help how hilarious I am” kind of thing. Many, if not most, of my jokes would bomb, should I share them. When something funny comes into my head I have to make a snap decision on whether to express it aloud, delete it, or save for later. My willpower is not strong, and I can rarely hold onto a joke for the future. Like a junkie I don’t save my stash for later.
Often I delete. Most jokes aren’t that funny. I throw away ten for every one I share.
I’ve had the joke faucet running my whole life and it’s hard to shut off. I have to consciously pay attention or it can get me into trouble.
Tonight was almost one of those times.
My friend Laura Ingalls Wilder (not her real name) and I were chatting tonight. Laura is a mom who just turned forty-two. I asked her how things were going and she told me that one of her close friends has an aggressive cancer and will be dead within a few weeks. Also, one of her clients also just got diagnosed with terminal cancer. Lastly, Laura Ingalls Wilder is undergoing the knife in early November for some pretty serious neck and shoulder issues. It’s possible that she could die while in surgery.
Pretty depressing stuff, no? Yes.
My empathy surfaced and I started feeling a sense of loss and sadness for Laura. Clearly she is going through a difficult time. As I’m reeling in this information, the joke mind popped out. Before I knew what I was doing, this is what happened next.
Exact transcript – no edits.
—
it sort of seems like someone is always dying lately. i guess i’m hitting that age.
I just thought of a joke
i’m sure soon one of my friends or I will be diagnosed with breast cancer.
you’re so old that your chest starts to go tits down and your friends start to go tits up
that’s some clever shit right there!
—
Now, if you’ve just decided I’m a monster, you’re wrong. Laura Ingalls Wilder is one of my closest female friends and we bust balls constantly. I think the world of her and would be crushed if she befell tragedy. When she told me that it’s possible (though very unlikely) that she could die as a result of this surgery, I asked if she could write me into her will and leave me her collection of mom jeans. I would them put them into a pile in a church parking lot and burn them as a sacrifice to God. We Christians don’t do enough sacrificial burning for God. I say more lighting things ablaze for the Lord! It’s fun and respectful.
She and I goof around a lot. Okay, back to the story…
—
you didn’t make that up.
I DID. right then. ha
you think you did. you heard it once and then forgot you heard it so you think it is yours.
jesus. I made it up
what to eat for dinner?
I had some frozen pasta with vegetables and pork
no, i’m sure you heard a woman comedian say something like that once.
the pork was a bad call
hmmm. maybe indian, tonight. I could use some Indian.
—
Okay, it ain’t exactly dialogue David Mamet would be proud to put in his next play, but this is what happened. She was talking about tragedy, and I pounced on it. I couldn’t stop myself. Notice how she didn’t even react other than to accuse me of joke-stealing. She’s probably right. This joke has to have been said before. I’m sure I have never heard it, but it’s too perfect and easy of a joke not to have been thought of already. I’m still proud I came up with it, though, even it it’s not original.
What’s important about being my friend is that you get used to these type of exchanges. During real tragedy I am empathic. The jokes go away and I’m present for my friends in whatever they need. But during everyday chit-chat, sometimes I just can’t help myself. I need to be funny, even when inappropriate.
The trick is to find friends that understand you love them deeply and also that you need to be yourself, which means sometimes making jokes about tough subjects. Thankfully, my friends not only can handle it, but welcome it.
photo credit: Old Shoe Woman via photopin cc
]]>You don’t look like Ken!
These were among the first words spoken to me by TheAnimatedWoman, J.C. Little. For months the AimingLow staff has been referring to me as Ken (of Barbie’s harem), probably because I took the only hunky photo of me and plastered it everywhere online. Just Google one of my stories and you’ll see it next to the search result. In person I’m quite normal looking. I have virtually no muscle definition and my skin is ghostly pale. I’m not a monster, but nobody’s plucking me out of obscurity to dance with Thunder From Down Under.
One of the reasons I get ribbed a lot by AimingLow writers is that they’re simply not a lot of dudes over there. Plus, I do silly things like show up to BlogHer where it’s five thousand women and twenty guys. The other reason I get my balls busted is that these women are ball-busters. They do it to everyone, not just me. Tonight I heard several inappropriate jokes and social references. And, nobody seemed to be offended. If they did, screw ’em. This is AimingLow, for chrissakes.
I’m amazed at my forgetfulness about how important physical interaction is to my well-being. I chat with many bloggers online and I really enjoy our virtual friendships. In person, however, relationship and connection deepens. I’ve written about this several times, but the idea of finding a tribe and then being with the tribe is so self-nourishing.
I planned our last high school reunion. Most likely I will plan the next one. It’s actually not that much work, and, while I’m not an organizer, I really like the process. I don’t enjoy making to-do lists or assigning tasks with deadlines. What fuels my drive is the vision that being together with my old classmates will feel good. I want to spend time with them. Maybe I’m more desperate for human interaction than others. Either way, I know what I want (people hanging out having fun), and it’s worth putting in the time.
I’m assuming this was Anissa’s plan as well. She’s the fearless leader of AimingLow and this is her baby. If you’re not familiar with her, you should read and follow her blog. Her story is inspirational and a great lesson for what can be accomplished through will. She’s also one of the coolest and lewdest woman I know who rocks a wheelchair. (I only know one woman who rocks a wheelchair, to be frank. But still!)
Okay, I have to go and prepare for my talk tomorrow morning. Will be live tweeting over the weekend and sending lots of photos. My girlfriend is joining us tomorrow morning (with her chihuahua, not mine) and everyone is excited to meet her.
Sitting in a conference room with pals is my idea of a vacation. So glad to be here.
Now, this isn’t really a support group in the traditional sense. We’re not a bunch of divorcees (well, a few of us are) trying to get closure, or boozebags (well, some of us are) learning the steps to recovery. We don’t hold hands and there are no prayers. It’s actually called “The Experiment” and it is run by all of us to help process our shit that we carry. It’s very heavy, emotional and real.
I’ve been going faithfully for three years every Wednesday night. It never occurred to me not to go, and the work we do in there is not easy. It’s exhausting. I’ve grown close to the group and I would say that we all love one another deeply. Great friendships have developed.
One Wednesday a few months back I simply decided not to go.
If I remember correctly I was tired and just wanted to relax at home. Which is fine, of course. But then the next week I didn’t go. And the next week. Sometimes I had a valid excuse like I was out of town or another obligation. Mostly, though, it was just me getting excited about running home and doing whatever I wanted.
An important lesson I’ve learned is that, for my own well-being, I must be in constant direct communication with other people who love me. My tendency, however, is to isolate and stow away.
I ended up missing the meeting for about two months. Each week I’d vow to go, and each week I’d find an excuse.
This week was no different.
Yesterday, about halfway through the day I decided not to go. I fantasized about the dinner I would make and all the time I would have to screw around before bed. That was it – I was going to skip and I knew it like I know my own name. Well, not my name. My name is goofy and Spanish and yet nobody in my family speaks it. So, my name, while it is mine, should really be on a shorter, dark and handsome playboy from Barcelona.
I ended up staying a little late at work yesterday than was planned. The thought hit me that I really should go to the meeting and that to be around people who care about me is reason enough. “Okay,” I decided, “I’m going!” And, in my head, I was going.
A minute later the idea of heading home on the bike and cooking up a steak tipped the scales again. I was NOT going.
Then, I reflected on how I was missing out on the lives of people I loved, and that got me excited to go again. I was going.
I was sort of freaking out. Literally changing my exact opinion and action every minute or so. It wasn’t like I was wavering between the two – I was against wheeling old people into traffic one moment, and then advocating for better wheelchair wheels so I could more easily push old people into traffic the next moment.
Hmm… that joke didn’t really work written out.
Anyway, I ended up getting to the meeting and it was amazing. I reconnected with friends and even got invited to a wedding!
I need to remember that I’m worth taking care of myself. Sometimes it means sitting home and looking for white chest hairs in the mirror, plucking them out and laying each against a contrasted colored surface such as my toiletry kit which is black. If I can find more than seventeen, I’ve won. The best part is that I can play this game every six weeks. And I will always win.
But it’s also important to remember that my tendency is to move away from people who love me. That is just an old impulse and it’s not useful. Like yelling at babies when they’re being dicks. Fun, but not useful.
For example you most likely haven’t talked about conditioning your private hair with your father. Or confessed that during phone conversations with loved ones you do inappropriate personal activity. Also, you probably don’t ride a bike to work with a dog in a backpack. Your first, middle, and last names probably aren’t as unusual as mine (plus I’m a “third”) for a pale while boy with blonde hair.
One of the things I’ve always done to feel important is to see myself as different. When I’m different I matter. I’m somebody. People can marvel at my distinctions and be impressed. They will love me because I’m so unique.
What that got me was a lot of non-intimate friendships and people feeling (I’m guessing) that I wasn’t allowing them to see my vulnerability and pain. Which was true.
I’m not so much that way anymore. As I spend time in connection with other people the more I realize my friends are pretty much that same as me. The pal who has a better financial situation than I do, he has fear about paying for his child’s college in sixteen years. The guy that has the perfect marriage feels that he has taken a backseat in importance to their children. Oh, and everbody’s worried about losing their jobs. Lastly, apparently wives aren’t always giving their husbands enough sex.
A few weeks ago while I was biking (this is my fourth year riding to work) I noticed a slight pain in my right knee. I just thought I must be leaning on it too much during my morning commute.
Now, when I get up after sitting on the ground, which, strangely I do a lot, I can feel that same slight pain. It’s a 1/10 and I don’t notice it other than occasionally riding. If I never rode a bike I bet I would have never felt it.
It’s a small example and certainly a lucky first experience with this, but my body is getting older and things will start to not work the same as they did.
This is hard for me to comprehend as I’ve never had a broken bone, major health issue, chronic condition, or even a back ache. My joints, hips, knees, and crotch all work flawlessly. Sorry for that. Cheap joke. Crotch = hilarious, though. Great word.
My parents don’t suffer from any physical ailments either which is unusual for people in their mid sixties. Maybe we’re just lucky. We’re certainly not pounding it out at the gym every day.
But yeah, over time stuff will stop working the way it did. The fact that I made it to thirty-six before I had any pain of any kind is remarkable. Again, just genes, I guess.
And oh yeah, over the past few years I learned that I can get fat like other people. That was disappointing too.
So, the truth is, that I am like you. I need approval, I have fear and sadness, my knee hurts, and I need to watch my calories. I’m still funnier and have better hair, but, hey – truth is truth.
Now, I’m going to go check out the glucosamine aisle at the grocery. With all the old people.
photo credit: Bill Gracey via photo pin cc
]]>The forecast today said the following:
90% chance of severe thunderstorms in the morning.
I checked my watch (okay, I don’t wear a watch because no guy wears a watch) – I checked my phone and the time read “morning.” Looking outside the air was heavy. There were hues of orange and gray, and the sun was not around. But I felt like I could make it to work before the sky opened up.
Though this logic was completely malformed, I accepted it. I wanted to and did embrace this denial. I showered and dressed. As I loaded up the bike I took one last look. Not raining. Sky appeared clear to the east which means nothing to me as I have no idea which direction weather comes from or goes.
Riding with my chihuahua is interesting because she sits in a tiny dog backpack facing away from me. She never makes a sound, and it’s easy to forget that she’s there. It’s also easy to forget that chihuahuas hate water. Once she’s on my back I don’t hear her until I arrive at work and she whimpers excitement saying hello to everyone.
I knew that I was probably going to get rained on, but I was hoping to get to work before this happened. Not because I didn’t want to get rained on. I don’t care about a little water. But I do consider it a personal victory if I can ride the ten miles to work and have the rain begin afterwards. Shaking my fist up toward the clouds is dumb, but for some reason it makes me feel like a big man. It’s not healthy. But fun.
Five minutes into the ride the sky darkened and I realized this was not going to fall my way. I became excited. I was going to ride through a storm. There wasn’t much I could do other than suck it up and ride. Nearly every commuter, many of which are serious bikers with spandex clothes, were not on the path this morning. It was empty. Then it started pouring rain.
I’ve written before about how burning hundreds of calories on the way to work balances me physically. I have a ton of extra energy and exhausting some of it helps me to have a more mellow day.
My dog and I rode through probably the worst storm we’d been through. There was lightning in the distance and rain came down hard enough to sting my skin. It was so heavy that all I could do within a few minutes was submit.
I feel like I’m in a club of people that shake their fist at the rain. When I passed other commuters I would look over at them and share a laugh. This is a very superficial club with no actual interaction, but it reminds me of the other, more intimate clubs I’m in.
I have a men’s group that meets twice a month. I have a few support groups I see weekly. Also, my blogger friends and readers. Not to mention my own family, close friendships, and girlfriend. These are all my tribes. I need to be able to do crazy things like ride in the rain. But I also need to find other people who do the same.
Thank you to everyone who reads and comments and has similar craziness. It’s helps me to feel less alone.
